The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Эмили Дикинсон

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       Read then of faith

       That shone above the fagot;

       Clear strains of hymn

       The river could not drown;

       Brave names of men

       And celestial women,

       Passed out of record

       Into renown!

      XIX.

       THE MYSTERY OF PAIN.

       Pain has an element of blank;

       It cannot recollect

       When it began, or if there were

       A day when it was not.

       It has no future but itself,

       Its infinite realms contain

       Its past, enlightened to perceive

       New periods of pain.

      XX.

       I taste a liquor never brewed,

       From tankards scooped in pearl;

       Not all the vats upon the Rhine

       Yield such an alcohol!

       Inebriate of air am I,

       And debauchee of dew,

       Reeling, through endless summer days,

       From inns of molten blue.

       When landlords turn the drunken bee

       Out of the foxglove's door,

       When butterflies renounce their drams,

       I shall but drink the more!

       Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,

       And saints to windows run,

       To see the little tippler

       Leaning against the sun!

      XXI.

       A BOOK.

       He ate and drank the precious words,

       His spirit grew robust;

       He knew no more that he was poor,

       Nor that his frame was dust.

       He danced along the dingy days,

       And this bequest of wings

       Was but a book. What liberty

       A loosened spirit brings!

      XXII.

       I had no time to hate, because

       The grave would hinder me,

       And life was not so ample I

       Could finish enmity.

       Nor had I time to love; but since

       Some industry must be,

       The little toil of love, I thought,

       Was large enough for me.

      XXIII.

       UNRETURNING.

       'T was such a little, little boat

       That toddled down the bay!

       'T was such a gallant, gallant sea

       That beckoned it away!

       'T was such a greedy, greedy wave

       That licked it from the coast;

       Nor ever guessed the stately sails

       My little craft was lost!

      XXIV.

       Whether my bark went down at sea,

       Whether she met with gales,

       Whether to isles enchanted

       She bent her docile sails;

       By what mystic mooring

       She is held to-day, —

       This is the errand of the eye

       Out upon the bay.

      XXV.

       Belshazzar had a letter, —

       He never had but one;

       Belshazzar's correspondent

       Concluded and begun

       In that immortal copy

       The conscience of us all

       Can read without its glasses

       On revelation's wall.

      XXVI.